


Tales of Christina

by sparrow2000



Category: BtVS - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:38:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our boy has a new girl</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tales of Christina: Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et all own everything. I own nothing, and make no profit from this story  
> I wrote this as an occasional series in 2007/08 for the Taming the Muse community on Live Journal

Summary: Our boy has a new girl  
Beta extraordinaire: [](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[**thismaz**](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/)

Every time he looked at her he thought that his heart might stop. He didn’t get this lucky. Ever. So he was still half convinced it wasn’t real. That she wasn’t real. He’d run through all the usual possibilities in his head: 'Wish', 'Alternate Reality', 'Parallel Universe'. But he knew it wasn’t any of those. If it had been, there would have been fighting and screaming and people trying to kill him. That was the way these things worked. That was why he knew this had to be real. That she was real, and she was smiling at him. And he could only smile right back.

Her name was Christina, and she was small and beautiful. No, beautiful was the wrong word. Cordy was beautiful. Christina was chic. Even sitting there in a T-shirt and a pair of Capri pants; she was effortlessly chic and couldn’t have been anything other then French. She made Xander dizzy, in a way he’d thought he would never feel again

He sipped his coffee slowly and watched her over the rim of the cup, as she studied the menu. The small café was bustling with lunchtime trade, but as far as Xander was concerned they could have been on a desert island. His mind drifted as he watched her and he pictured the first time he’d seen her, just 24 hours before. He’d been standing in the pit of hell that called itself Nice Railway Station. The train drivers were on strike and the train he needed to catch to Marseille was cancelled. As was every other train. The heat was somewhere in the 90’s and the station was full of very unhappy travellers, all going nowhere. Businessmen with bulging briefcases and bits of metal coming out of their ears, like the Borg, had shoved their way through groups of disgruntled backpackers, while a herd of Japanese tourists took pictures of themselves and each other and anything else that moved. Yep, it had definitely been like hell.

He’d just turned away from the empty departure boards to head towards the taxi stand, when it happened: he’d fallen over her – literally. She’d been bent down, fishing for something in her bag and he just hadn’t seen her. Until he had. And he couldn’t speak. For a moment he was 16 again, as he rushed to help her pick stuff up off the floor. But she wasn’t blonde and she didn’t have a stake – but from the feeling in his gut, she might as well have had. She had green eyes and short black hair that shone like patent leather, and pale delicate skin that looked like it might tear if he touched it. And he’d wanted to touch it. She’d risen to her feet; bag in hand and for a moment he’d stayed on his knees, thinking he could worship at her altar for the rest of his life. Then he’d flushed and staggered upright, trying not to look like a complete dork.

She’d turned to go and he’d desperately struggled for something to make her stay. “You know my horoscope said something life changing would happen today.” He winced as he thought back on the moment. On the scale of lame chat up lines, it was right up there with coming up to see his etchings. But she’d laughed and asked him what his sign was. Of course he was Gemini - even before Toth, he’d always been a little schizo. She’d nodded like she’d known what he would say and told him that she was a Virgo. And that Virgo’s weren’t very good at life changing events - that they were messy. She’d paused for a moment, studying him. Then she smiled and said he could buy her a coffee, if he wanted. And oh boy, he’d wanted.

The coffee had turned into lunch, and the lunch had turned into dinner, and somehow the dinner had turned into breakfast. And he discovered that she wasn’t really a virgo. But for now, he watched her over the rim of his coffee cup and realised that the horoscope had been right. Marseille could wait. The train drivers could take another day off. Xander was in love.


	2. Tales of Christina: Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander's in Paris (but you probably gathered that!)

_**Ficlet: Tales of Christina 2: Paris**_  
Beta extraordinaire; [](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[**thismaz**](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/)

Xander stared at the endless, steep steps above him and wondered, for about the tenth time, why he couldn't take the funicular railway to the top. It was the sane choice of all self respecting, sedentary Americans, proven by the fact that the queue was a good twenty minutes long. But no, he was there, on the stair, just like the mouse in the song, but instead of going 'clip clippity clop', he was trying not to show just how unfit he'd become since Sunnydale ate itself. Yep, he was a big, manly man and he was damned if he was going to let a girl beat him to the top of the hill. Of course, that was the real reason he was toiling up the steps, in eighty degree heat, in the middle of the day - he was following Christina.

When he thought about it, he'd been following Christina since that first fateful day in Nice, when he'd made a stupid joke about horoscopes and fallen in love. Since then, he'd followed her along the coast to Marseille, where he'd actually remembered to pick up the magical do-hickey that Giles needed, which just proved that he didn't think with his dick all the time! Well, Christina had had an appointment, so he'd had time to kill and thought he might as well do something useful and get some brownie points with Giles while he was at it.

Then he'd followed her through Avignon and Bordeaux and Rheims and savoured every single moment, just like the wine he'd tasted along the way. And now, he'd followed her to Paris, and yes, he was actually meant to be in Florence, collecting some stuffy, unpronouncable Codex. But hey, Paris - Florence, they were easy to get mixed up. They were both in Europe and they were both on a big river, had ancient bridges and history and churches and glamorous locals looking at him like he'd just landed from space. Okay, he was bullshitting, but the Codex wasn't urgent. Giles was just doing some forward planning for the next apocalypse but one, so it could wait a couple of days. He could always say there was another train strike, because he knew damn fine that if he blamed the French, Giles would definitely believe him.

So he was in Paris, climbing the steps to Montmartre, because Christina told him that he hadn't seen Paris until he'd seen the view from Sacre Coeur. He looked up and the church seemed to shimmer in the midday sun. He remembered some derogatory talk in a local bar about the 'Wedding Cake' and the comic in him had had a whole series of bad puns lined up. But in this moment, with the sun and the heat and the stillness in the air, there was no joke, just glistening marble, testament to an architect's mad dream. And all of a sudden it seemed to float impossibly above the city, as remote and unattainable as the peaks of Everest.

But then he heard a laugh floating down from above him and the moment was gone and his eye refocused on the dark haired girl standing, tantalisingly out of reach, just five steps away. She smiled and held out her hand and it was all the impetus he needed. Launching himself forward, he scrambled up the next few steps and joined her on the first plateau. Her laughter slid over him like chocolate and as he traced one tanned hand down the side of her face, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the nose and skipped away. He stuck out his tongue and covered the distance between them in three quick strides and picked her up before she could run again. And as she curled her arms around his neck and trusted herself to his strength, he realised that he didn't need to climb the steps to see Paris. The Mona Lisa, Notre Dame, The Eiffel Tower and Sacre Coeur herself would all still be there in a moment. Right now, he held Christina in his arms and knew that wherever he was, this would always be his perfect view.


	3. Tales of Christina 3: Florence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander struggles to understand why Florence is special

_**Ficlet: Tales of Christina 3: Florence**_  
Beta extraordinaire: [](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[**thismaz**](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/)

  
As he walked briskly towards the small silversmith’s shop perched on the end of the Ponte Vecchio, Xander finally understood what Christina had tried to explain the night before as they walked back to their hotel in the twilight and watched the shards of the waning moon flicker and dance on the inky waters of the Arno. Florence was a city of magic and spells which had nothing to with the supernatural and everything to do with the arcane.

He thought back to the day before, when they’d strolled down the Via Por Santa Maria, dodging the barkers for the tourist stands and trying to avoid being run down by the mopeds and the scooters, and all he’d seen was another honey pot. She’d tried to explain how the pace and the rhythm of the city were different from anywhere they’d ever been. She’d encouraged him to look beyond the gilt and the glamour and the tourist tat, but as another coach load of sightseers roared by, he’d struggled to understand. So she’d sighed and kissed him and he knew later, as he watched her going through her evening rituals, that she was probably making plans to help him take off the blinkers and see what she saw so clearly. They’d made love and it was tender and sweet and he’d watched her fall asleep, pale skin framed by patent hair and he wondered how long the idyll could continue, and he slipped into restless dreams of boxes and walls and locked drawers.

She was already up when he woke in the morning and as he reached for a morning kiss, she smiled impishly and gave him a list of directions and a promise to meet him for dinner that evening. So he’d followed her list and he’d admired the architecture and gazed at the views, but he was on his own and he felt like he could have been anywhere in Italy. She’d told him Florence was special, but the reason eluded him and he knew he’d have to try harder. So he’d stood in line at the Uffizi and paid his money and wandered the halls. The paintings and the sculptures were beautiful; who wouldn’t admire the line of Caravaggios and Titans and Michelangelo’s magnificent David? He knew he was appreciating them with a craftsman’s eye for detail and form and that was okay, but they didn’t speak to his soul and he knew he was going to disappoint her. As he turned to leave he noticed a gallery he hadn’t been down before and he felt he owed it to Christina to have one last try. And that’s when he saw her. So small, so unassuming and possibly the most breath taking thing he’d seen in his life. He stared at the Giotto, and the Madonna and Child seemed to glow with their own inner light. He couldn’t explain why this spoke to him where others had failed. Maybe it was the seriousness of the baby, or the intrigued expression of his mother. Perhaps it was the worshippers lined up at the sides, giving a glorious perspective to the whole tableau.

He caught his breath and his memory telescoped through images of Nice and Paris and the days and weeks of pleasure in between. Perspective, that’s what he’d been missing. He looked back at the painting and something seemed to shatter in to pieces in the back of his brain. The artist had been striving for something almost unattainable – beauty and purity and an undeniable simplicity that had lasted through centuries. And now Xander pushed against the boundaries of his own complex life. He was tired of juggling the different facets, keeping them separate and secure in their own little boxes. He resolved to make a change.

He inclined his head slightly to the painting and headed out into the bustle of the city. Another tour bus rumbled past, but this time he didn’t give it his attention. The city was bathed in a wash of afternoon sunlight and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. This was the city of Machiavelli and Leonardo and Dante and the Medici. This was a city of intrigue and whispers, of seduction and subtlety. That was the reason that Florence was different. This was a city which shaped lives.

Xander glanced at his watch and marvelled at how long he’d been in the gallery, but he still had two hours, until he was to meet Christina on the steps of Santa Croce. Surely, time enough to see one of the silversmiths and make a choice. Tonight he was going to tell her a tale of vampires and demons and open the darkest corners of his life to her scrutiny. And if she was still with him by the time the espresso was served, he was going to get on his knees and offer her a ring. And this time he wasn’t going to run.


	4. Tales of Christina 4: Amsterdam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander’s brooding!

_**Ficlet: Tales of Christina 4: Amsterdam**_  
Beta extraordinaire: [](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[**thismaz**](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/)

  


She’d said she wanted some time. Time to think. Time to adjust. Time to herself. He couldn’t blame her. She’d been expecting a nice romantic meal and an account of what he had discovered about Florence. And everything went according to plan - until he started talking about vampires, and demons and hell gods, oh my… And she’d sat and watched him, her eyes huge in her suddenly too pale face. But she hadn’t interrupted. She hadn’t walked away. She just sat and watched him and occasionally tilted her head when he reached a particularly outrageous part of his tale. The silence was unnerving and a couple of times he’d been tempted to pretend it was all a joke, but he remembered the Giotto and his resolution to stop keeping his life in boxes, and he carried on. After he finished, he watched her pick up her coffee cup and sip slowly, just as she’d done that first day in Nice and he decided it was now or never. He rummaged in his pocket and brought out the small box and slipped it across the table and watched her as she opened it. She stared for a moment and as her head came up, he took the plunge and said the words he thought he’d never say again. And he waited as she fingered the finely crafted ring and looked back up at him. She didn’t say no, but she didn’t say yes. She said she needed some time and he couldn’t blame her.

When the call came from Giles, about the book that needed collecting from Amsterdam, he wanted to slam down the phone. He was desperate not to leave her. Sure, give her some space, but he wanted to available just in case. But he knew Giles never called about trivia and he had to answer the summons. And of course she’d understood.

That was three days ago. Three days filled with travelling and talking and being an adult and for once the job was straight forward - just a handshake, a few modest words in Drakken that he’d learned by rote, and a not so modest cheque, and the deed was done. There was even a request to pass on thanks to Giles for doing the dealer the courtesy of sending one of the Council’s senior members, which made him feel kind of good. For a moment. But now he was sitting in the Reijenders brown bar, staring into his beer and wondering about the strangeness of language. He’d learned the Drakken phrases Giles had given him and understood what he was saying. But he didn’t understand why the words were in that order, or why it needed to be pronounced in that particular way. He didn’t understand the nuances and that was the root of the problem. She said she needed time, but he wasn’t sure how to measure his absence. Did she mean two days, or three weeks, or five years? For all his experience growing up with women, it was the one thing he always struggled with. What did they actually mean when they said something like that, because the number of times he’d been slapped in the face, or stood up, or nearly sacrificed to the nearest dark idol, he was pretty sure he must be getting something wrong in the translation. He’d once thought of asking Anya for a male friendly phrase book, so that he wouldn’t ever hurt another girl, but that would have been pretty tacky, and if he’d asked any of the other girls, he had the feeling that they’d probably give him the equivalent of a ‘Berlitz Guide to Falling on your Ass’, just for the fun of seeing him squirm. He remembered the first time he’d done a job for Giles in China, and struggled through with a tourist dictionary. It wasn’t his fault that what he thought was a polite greeting in Mandarin, actually translated as ‘indecent haste makes speed bumps across your buttocks’. He didn’t know if that bit of China had any speed bumps, but he’d sure as hell come away without the artefact he was after and with a nasty rash he didn’t want to talk about. So interpretation and translation were never his strong points. He acknowledged it as he sipped on his beer and knew that despite his fears, he would have to trust her and wait until she was ready.

The clock ticked and the old men at the back of the bar talked about nothing and the barman wiped the scarred wood of the countertop and watched his fiefdom with a knowing eye. Looking at his watch, Xander realised that he’d been there for an hour and he hovered between going back to his hotel room or having a second beer. The old bar was dark and smoky and the stools had seen better days, but it was warm and the host knew his business. The generic Holiday Inn room waiting for him wasn’t putting up much of a fight, as he sighed and raised his glass in the universal sign for a refill. It was there before he’d hardly had time to blink and he nodded his thanks. He sat, sipping from his new beer when another appeared next to his elbow. He started to signal to the barman that he hadn’t ordered another drink when he saw a small figure hop up onto the stool next to him. One slim hand reached out and picked up the glass and he could only stare and shake his head as he watched her take a drink before smiling wickedly at him.

She put the glass down and tilted her head as she watched him, and in the end he could only laugh. “So is this my cue to say – ‘of all the gin joints in all the world…’?”

She echoed his laughter as she slid forward until she was perched right on the edge of the stool, closing the distance between them. Cupping one small hand around the back of his head, she pulled him forward, kissing him gently, and suddenly he felt like he’d been drinking for hours. She pulled back reluctantly and looked at him, her other hand resting against the dark wood of the bar and he could see the glint of silver on her finger as she shook her head. “You know I’ve always loved Casablanca, but I’m not going to get on the plane.”

As her words sank in, he realised that, finally, he didn’t need a translation. She’d had her time and he understood her just fine.


	5. Tales of Christina 5: Cape Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander contemplates happiness

_**Ficlet: Tales of Christina 5:Cape Town**_  
Beta extraordinaire: [](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[**thismaz**](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/)  


If someone had told him that one day he would be truly happy, Xander would have laughed and called them a liar. Guys like him didn’t get to be happy, not really. Okay, there had been moments of happiness throughout his life and he was thankful for every one, but being a Harris and living on the Hellmouth simply doubled his chances for crappiness to happen. He didn’t fight it. There wasn’t any point. It was just the way things were.

But that was B.C. - Before Christina - before he’d helped a green eyed girl with her purse, bought her coffee and fallen in love. It had happened so quickly, and so completely, it took his breath away. Sure, they’d had their moments; he’d finally found someone who was as stubborn as he was, but that also meant that she wouldn’t give up. Who else would have driven across Europe to find him after he’d come clean about the things that go bump in the night? Most people would have run screaming in the other direction, but not her. She’d taken her time to think, reached her own conclusions, and then she’d followed him, making jokes about Casablanca and not getting on planes. It was about love, but it was more than that. It was about trust and the responsibility was almost overwhelming.

But that was the thing: he wasn’t overwhelmed. Not like with Anya, or with Cordy, or Willow, or any of the other relationships he’d ever had. He saw so much more clearly now and part of him mourned for the boy who’d always been so desperate to please and so determined to sabotage any chance of joy he’d ever had. The other half wanted to slap the same boy for being so stupid, but that was okay too.

But this... this was different. He was different. He struggled for a moment to work out why and, looking up at the sun and the view, he realised that she hadn’t tried to mould or direct him. She hadn’t tried to make him do anything. She had just been…she had just been Christina, and that was enough. He’d made the decision to change because he’d wanted to. She hadn’t made it for him. He’d been an adult and reached his own conclusions and for the first time in years he was truly content.

There was a symmetry about things, that he ended up back here - back in Africa, where he’d finally shaken the dust of Sunnydale out of his hair and started on his own journey of discovery. Now he’d returned, Christina at his side, and he felt whole – like the cycle of rebirth was complete. And he was finally happy.

He thought back to the last time he’d been in Cape Town, after four years of learning about different shades of grey. He’d longed to take a slow boat through the Greek Islands. He’d imagined bypassing all the tourist hot spots and uncovering hidden gems where he could feel completely free. Antipaxoi, Meganissi, Antikythera, those were the places he’d wanted to explore. Places the guide books passed by, where he could close his eyes and finally sleep. He’d pictured himself on a small fishing boat, trailing his hand in blue waters and listening to history’s siren call. Instead he’d found himself in Nice, and discovered first hand how history is made.

He looked across the breakfast table of the small, exclusive hotel, nestled in the shadow of Table Mountain, and watched her as she concentrated on eating the fruit picked fresh of the trees surrounding the garden restaurant – mango, peach, papaya and guava – sweet, luscious and perfect with a hint of tart accompaniment. Funny how a breakfast could reflect a personality so absolutely. She smiled at his gaze, accepting it as natural before returning to her meal. For a moment he lost himself in the smells and sights and sounds of the garden – lemon balm and cut grass and the sweet lingering scent of cinnamon and cloves from the incense they’d burned the night before. They lingered on his senses and he let himself drift for a moment, wondering at how his life had changed since he was last here.

He was married and he was happy. He hadn’t felt the need to make a deal of things. He hadn’t felt the need to ask permission of anyone else. He’d asked her in Florence and she’d answered in Amsterdam and they’d married in South Africa. How international was that? The boy from Sunnydale couldn’t have said where Cape Town was, a few short years ago. That boy would have worried, and fretted, and joked, and asked his friends for permission to live his life. But not now. He’d changed, and he was sure, and he didn’t need approval any more. He looked up at Table Mountain, and the mountain looked back and gave him support. He watched Christina as she finished the last piece of mango and he laughed. “Okay then, Mrs Harris; there’s a mountain calling, why don’t we take a hike and show it what we’re made of?”

She gazed back and sucked the last piece of mango juice off her finger, smiling wickedly as she watched his reaction. Leaning across the table she gave him a slow, sticky kiss and smiled again. “We can do that if you like. But you’ve got nothing to prove Mr Harris. The mountain already knows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I always knew they would end up in Cape Town, but it wasn’t until I was actually writing this chapter that I suddenly realised that the Xander of the Christina tales is the same Xander from[Journeyman](http://sparrow2000.livejournal.com/36608.html), my story about Xander leaving Africa. I discovered that Christina is what happened to that Xander post Journeyman._ If you enjoyed this, I'd love to hear from your. Either here or feel free to leave a comment on my LJ. On the last chapter of this story on my LJ there are some photos of the garden where Xander and Christina had breakfast. You can find them right [here...](http://sparrow2000.livejournal.com/68254.html#cutid1)


End file.
